


When You Mention Blue

by cybercandy



Category: The Used
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:50:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybercandy/pseuds/cybercandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the song "Soundeffects and Overdramatics".</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Mention Blue

Quinn’s stomach growls and he slides his hand across the flat, almost concave surface that is his belly. His ribs are sticking out like a skeleton-washboard and there’s a valley between his hipbones where the skin is sunken in and stretched tight. He hasn’t eaten in two, maybe three days, time is weird if it doesn’t get interrupted by sleep, and he should feel hungry, but the white crystals cursing through his bloodstream are pushing away any thought of food. It’s virtually impossible to eat when he’s tweaking this hard, it’s like his body just forgets how to chew and swallow and it’s easier not to try at all.

He’s tried.

Quinn rubs his eyes, they’ve been open for way too long and they burn, but he can’t sleep, he’s not even tired, not exactly, it’s like he can see sleep’s shadow but he can’t step on it because he’s going too fast.

Too fast. 

Bert’s reaching for the mirror again, surface foggy with chemicals, and Quinn watches glassy-eyed and slack-jawed as Bert chops up some more of the white powder and cuts it out into thin white lines. They’re almost as long as the mirror is wide, it takes more and more for the powder to do its job, but Bert’s not ready to give in to sleep yet. 

Not yet.

Bert’s focused, pushing and dragging the speed with a credit card that’s long been cancelled, it probably doesn’t even belong to him, Quinn can’t read the name on it, letters etched away by the drugs they’ve been exposed to. Finally Bert’s satisfied that the lines are the same size and reaches for the straw they’ve stolen from a fast food restaurant and cut down to size, snorting drugs through rolled up banknotes is something rich coke heads do, nothing desperate speed freaks and meth heads can afford. They need all the money they have to buy drugs. Bert holds the red and yellow striped white plastic tube up to his nostril and inhales the line in one breath, then switches nostrils and snorts another line before passing the straw to Quinn who sticks the straw up his nose to claim his share of their drugs. The powder stings like hell on the inflamed and swollen tissue and Quinn pinches the bridge of his nose because for a moment it feels like he’s gonna sneeze. His eyes water but he manages to stop it, he can’t waste any of the precious powder.

No.

It takes maybe ten minutes for the chemicals to enter the bloodstream and another five for the leftovers to drip down Quinn’s throat, tasting like salt water and burning the skin. Quinn doesn’t think about the red-rawness he’ll feel for days once they’ve stopped because it doesn’t hurt just now, because nothing hurts just now. 

They need to stop. 

They’ve spent their last money on the baggie of powder on the mirror that’s only got a few more lines left in it, after that, there’s nothing... unless... unless Bert finds a wallet in someone’s pocket or Quinn finds someone willing to trade blowjobs for money. He doesn’t want to go outside, the light’s too bright and his eyes are twitching in their sockets and no one is going to pick him up looking as strung out as he does and Bert’s far too jittery to pick someone’s pocket. 

Now.

They need to stop.

But stopping is hard, brings with it the debilitating tiredness that hits hours before the body is able to sleep, and taking just a little more, just one more line, to delay the inevitable is just too tempting. Quinn’s heartbeat is racing and he’s talking even faster, it’s kicking in, now, he can feel it rush up his spine and tingle at the back of his head. They talk about anything and nothing and Bert giggles and rolls around on the bed, still in the clothes he was wearing when they started. He wraps his legs around Quinn’s skinny hips, hands gripping strands of Quinn’s greasy bleached-blonde hair, pinning him down, grinding crotch against crotch. If he was sober Quinn’d get hard now, but the chemicals in his bloodstream that make his ears ring and his mouth go dry as sandpaper also make his dick shrivel up like a prune that’s been left in the sun for too long. He could coax it into life but that requires energy he doesn’t have and even if he manages to get it up he probably won’t be able to come. Orgasm is elusive when you’re going a million miles an hour.

Stop.

Sex is something for the time when the chemicals in their blood have diminished and their heartbeats have evened out, before the zombie-like exhaustion sets in, for when their skin is crawling and their bodies are twitching through the comedown.

The white powder is Bert’s poison, Quinn’s only along for the ride, an occasional passenger. He prefers the soft, yellow-cushioned boat on the slow crawling smoky-green weed river to the too-bright, neon-blue, break-neck-crystal-lined amphetamine roller coaster Bert’s so fond of. But he’s not leaving Bert, they’re in this together until the end, they’ll fuck and hold each other until they collapse and pass out and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Forever.

Until next time.


End file.
